Writing Against the Law
by Enray
Summary: Response to starr1095's challenge 'writing'. The king has made a decree that only scribes can write stories and books, but a true writer cannot be stopped by a mere decree.


This is the response to starr1095's challenge 'writing'. My writer's block is going away, so hopefully, there'll be more updates.

Hope this will be worth the wait. For the other challenges, I'm working on it.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Danny Phantom.

* * *

_And so it begins, _

_this war of two twins._

_The country is split,_

_for…_

His head shot up as the door to his humble abode was torn down. In moments, the room was filled with guards and he was face down on the floor with his arms twisted around and pinned to his back. The quill he was holding earlier had disappeared somewhere during the chaos.

"By order of His Majesty, King Albert, you, Horest Wirtg, are under arrest writing books," the leader announced.

He was forced to his feet and pushed towards the door. Half stumbling, half walking, he didn't provide any resistance. He was aware of the decree that no one was allowed to write any books or stories except for the scribes in the palace. He knew, every time he wrote, that he would have to face the consequences, but he did not mind. He would be damned if he let the decree take away from him his one purpose in life.

Horest knew all too well that if he chose to, he could easily become a scribe in the palace. As a scribe, he could write with all his waking hours. He would be provided for _to_ write. He did not want to sound full of himself, but from the speed at which his books were sold, even though it was written against the law, he could comfortably say that not many could write as well as him. A scribe would be, should be, his dream occupation.

However, there was always a 'however', being a scribe would restrict him. The king will not allow certain things to be written. He might be able to write without hiding, but he would not be able to write what he wanted, things that he would not mind dying for to put on paper. He had a friend who was a scribe, and he could see the agony his friend felt whenever he wrote. He was once recommended for the job, when he was younger, but he turned it down.

It was not a hard choice, but it was not an easy one either.

As he sat in his cell, he waited. There were two things that could happen. One, he could be forced offered the job as a scribe; two, he could be executed. He knew that he would reject the job, and he had already accepted death as a possibility when he first decided to write despite the decree. That acceptance might have contributed to the calmness he felt. Without that, he might be begging for mercy like the man in the cell beside him, losing his dignity before his death.

The day after his arrest, the head scribe visited him in his cell to _offer_ him a place in the palace as a scribe. It seemed that the king knew talent when he saw one, to send the head scribe personally to deliver the offer. As flattering as it was, he still turned it down. He would choose dying over losing his freedom in writing. Some time after the head scribe left, a pastor came.

He was to be publically executed the next day.

He spent his last night calmly, despite the occasional fear of dying that any human would have. When he was led to the gallows, he held his head high. Let his readers finally know the face of the author of the books they risked capture and imprisonment to buy.

The noose was placed around his neck. He kept his eyes forward without fear. He did not mind death.

His only regret…

The trapdoor beneath him opened.

… was that he could not finish his book.

* * *

"There's another one."

"Another one."

"Everyone wants it."

"But he's dead."

"The decree is gone."

"The king's afraid."

"What if he's alive?"

An invisible figure smiled as his books were bought, disappearing off the shelves as quickly as his body fell from the platform.

Ghostwriter.

He had continued using his pseudonym for the books he completed after death. It was a rearrangement of the letters in his name. A symbol. He was still Horest Wirtg, but he was not the same Horest Wirtg. However, as long as he continued to write, he would be Ghostwriter. Funny how it was the king, of all people, who provided him with the best choice – to write freely for eternity without the fear of a death sentence.

After all, he was already dead.

With a feeling of satisfaction, the ghost left the book shop and returned to his lair in the Ghost Zone.

There were still others books to be written.

* * *

_Hey! Poetess here. I just wanted to tell you guys that I sort of... **changed** between this fic and the previous one. I'm not a robot anymore. Think small dog-like creature with three tails. Yeah._

Don't look at me like that. It just happened. ~Enray

_Now that I look cuter._

*puppy dog eyes*

_Please review!_


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